It's Okay, We Can Still Be Friends
by in finitas
Summary: future type fiction. Rory's not that innocent anymore, but it's not really about her. based on (of course) a Bright Eyes song. it's not clichéd...at least i hope it's not.


**So this is a new story by me. It's based, yet again, on a Bright Eyes song, but the lyrics don't show up until the end.**

**I know there is an allusion to the Great Gatsby, and it has been done on the episode I Solemly Swear. I love the Great Gatsby, and it seemed to fit in this. So on with the story...**

Tell me, friend, is it probable for a male and a female to still be friends after a period of 5 years? 5 years can be long, but not long enough. Wounds are still there, tears are still shed. At least, from what she tells me. But is she lying? Is she just creating a guilt feelings in my stomach for hurting her those years before. 

I didn't hurt her, though. It was a mutual decision, between the both of us. I stare at her now, and I don't recognize who she is. She tells me she is the same, just older, wiser. I doubt that, though. There is a different lift in her step and a different gleam in her eye. She must be blinding herself if she believes that I don't see it. I am the master at disguise, and she is simply my apprentice.

Or was.

She smiles now, her mouth speak different words from before. They're not words of wisdom or maturity, but words of concealment. Who is she to kid? I can see through her, but am I willing to allow her to suck me in again? To play her silly little game of "who can get Rory next?"

Indeed, who can get her next? What lucky male will be seduced by this fair woman? She tells me she is single and looking. Or is she single and seducing? What poor soul is wrapped around her finger again? Will it be me? I know it will be. Why else would she go and find me after all these years of freedom and music?

And now she looks at me, her bright eyes bore through mine. I cover up my doubt and confusion and stare back. She smiles again and says,

"So we're still friends, right?"

And I nod.

---

She stands and places a kiss upon my cheek. Inwardly, I wince, wondering what I got myself into. She writes her phone number on a napkin and hands it to me. I methodically take it and stick it in my pocket and stand with her. I throw some bills on the table and take her elbow.

"Shall I lead the lady to her chariot?"

She giggles, still a juvenile sound. She pretends to faint and I laugh at the cliché. I never would've thought she would fall for such a infantile things as that. We walk to her car and she places another kiss on my cheek, this time the opposite.

"I missed you." She says, her eyes still naïve. I nod and she steps into the vehicle. I step back and it roars to life. I turn and walk away as she peels out of the lot. I shake my head at the immaturity of it all. I slowly move to my own car and I climb in. I take out the napkin and stare at the digits written smoothly on it.

I sigh and lean my head against the seat. I am a fool.

---

I call the number, but no one answers. A disappointment of sorts, but I think it is for the best. Again, the next day I call. This time I get a girl and we share a few words. She greets me and I ask,

"Is Rory there?" She snorts and replies with a,

"No, she is at Gene's. He probably took her to a bar." My brow furrows and I ask a expected question.

"Who is Gene?"

"Gene is her fiancé. An ass, if you ask me. Not even her mom likes him, and her mom even liked that Jess character she went out with." She replies, bitterly. I smile in nostalgia, but frown at the lie. I thought she said she was single.

"Tell me, does this Gene treat her well?" I ask, curious at her new fish.

"I guess. He's pure money, no personality what so ever. She even told me she's marrying him for the money. That's such a Great Gatsby, 1920's thing to do." and then she remembers. "Who are you?"

I pause and think on how to answer her.

"I am her Jay Gatsby." I reply and hang up the phone.

---

I watch as she silently climbs through my window and into my room. I sit and wait for her to come near me. She is predictable, just like always. She touches my face and she asks.

"May I sleep here the night?" I nod and lay down, waiting for her to join me. She does and we fall asleep with our clothes on. 

I wake and I see her there, peaceful and dreaming. I shake her awake to find the answers of a question I was burning to ask. And so I say,

"Why are you here?" She looks up at me, her eyes sad and pleading.

"You hurt me before, I want to see if you will again." She whispers, on the brink of forged tears.

"I never hurt you." I say, angered at her lie. I never hurt her. She hurt me by walking away.

"You did when you broke up with me." I laugh bitterly.

"I am not stupid, dear Rory." I whisper, running my finger lightly down her cheek. "I know who Gene is." Her eyes widen and she looks at me in surprise. "Get out of my house and never come back." I say, my voice rising.

"But..." She protests. I know she is trying to explain.

"Go. I don't want to see your lying face again." I growl and take her wrist. I jerk her off my bed and she stumbles.

"Please, let me explain." Her voice is pleading. I pull her towards me and hold her tight.

"You've explained enough." I say roughly into her ear. "Now tell me, girl," I spit, "Are the wounds still there?" And I push her out of my window and onto my balcony.

"Wait!" She calls as I start to close the glass.

"Lift up your shirt, Rory. The wound isn't there. The truth is just a ghost of your lies." I close the window tightly and step into the shadows of the corner. I watch slowly as she makes her way off of my property. I walk to my kitchen and open the wine cabinet. I pour myself some whiskey and I raise it as a toast.

"The truth is just a ghost of your lies." I say and take a drink. I pour some more and I raise it again. "The truth is just a ghost of your lies." I say, louder, and drown the glass. Again and again I repeat it until one more time. I pour myself a shot and raise it high above me head. "The truth is just a fucking ghost of your lies!" I scream and throw the glass against the wall. A light brown stain works it's way slowly down the wash-white plaster.

I calmly get another cup and I pour myself some more. Before I allow myself to drink, I speak,

"I'm pouring some whiskey right now. I'm going to get so, so drunk that I pass out and forget your face by the time I wake up." And I drown another cup.


End file.
